


Lundenburh - the third face of Janus

by golden_bastet



Series: The god of beginnings and endings [2]
Category: Sè jiè | Lust Caution (2007), The Professionals
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_bastet/pseuds/golden_bastet





	1. Chapter 1

Four years, and a lifetime ago.

Raymond Doyle had left Bromwicham, and that summer episode, far behind. As the war had pushed on, and Bromwicham fallen to the enemy over several days of horror, he'd made his way through the chaos to Lundenburh with the waves of refugees, ending up on the doorstep of a distant cousin, broke and at a loss as to where else to go. Cousin Helen, a much older woman living alone, welcomed the chance for a handyman about the place, although she didn't expend much effort in reestablishing family ties. She provided a place to sleep and space in the kitchen; other than that Doyle spent his time on odd jobs and keeping his head down, pushing the memories of war and turmoil, of treading boards and _doing_ something for the greater good behind him.

Lundenburh was as much down on its luck as Doyle was. War and then occupation no longer inspired lofty speeches to sway the masses. Given the constant news of deaths and losses with no clear end, the air hung heavy with the memory of air raids and the interminable continuation of the war. Heavy rationing was the order of the day, clothes were carefully washed and mended instead of being replaced, and there was a preponderance of women and children on the streets. Brython had fallen, and the thick of war had departed, but there remained an oppressive cloak over the city.

Doyle crossed down the steps of a massive stone building. He allowed himself a few treats, such as a couple of hours at the library once or twice a month. He read in bed when he could; coal was dear and stoves couldn't always be lit solely to provide light for reading. But when he could, he would take a look at, indulge in literature. This time he had Shakespeare's Scottish Play in hand.

> _Out, out, brief candle!_  
>  Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
>  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
>  And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
>  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury  
>  Signifying nothing.

Oh, if he ever had the chance to perform Shakespeare, he wouldn't have to go far to evoke the emotions. He lived them every day.

#

There were recesses that could draw Raymond deep into the library. Places where he could go, in which he wouldn't run into anyone else. Sections where he could take refuge in Shakespeare, and Joyce, and Shaw, and explore other possible ways of being.

> _But screw your courage to the sticking-place,  
>  And we'll not fail._

On occasion he remembered the troupe, and the plays, and the acclaim – and the grand role and the masquerade. How he had truly believed that The Traitor had been hooked, how they were reeling him in. How, despite their last argument, he had believed that Anna had been handling the operation and The Traitor adeptly – and some outside influence, some _deus ex machina_ , had stepped in and moved the target far across the chessboard, out of their reach. How he'd kept watch as they'd saved the mission, eliminated a threat.

And then how they'd split up, how he'd left the university behind, how he'd never seen any of them again.

But overall, he never spent too much time thinking about them, preferring to focus on the play, the stage, and words which could cause the world to move.

#

The street market was busier than usual; it was hard for Raymond to select the carrots, potatoes and onions that Cousin Helen had sent him there for. He wasn't sure why she bothered; she never liked the vegetables he brought back, complaining that she might as well use his head because it was close enough to a turnip. He never answered, however, because he stood a chance of getting a bowlful of the soup she would make from whatever he brought back, saving him the trouble of figuring out how to feed himself that day.

The regular grocer was at the end of this lane; he just had to weave his way through the crowd, and -

"Ray? Ray Doyle?"

He froze in his tracks, unsure of whether to slip away or face the questioner. His face remained impassive, but for all that he felt like he'd been hit by a train. _No one beyond art school refers to me as Ray._

"It's me, Ray, Smith. Remember me? From Bromwicham?" The tone was as warm and convincing as ever.

"Of course I do. How could I forget?"

"It's been a long time. How are you?"

"Like anyone living through a long-term war. Is there another way to be?"

"Ray – it's hard on everyone... But it has been years. Look – let's not stand here in the street. There's a teahouse just across the way. My treat?"

What did he have to lose? It would at least solve the immediate problem of what to eat. "Sure, I have a few minutes. Why not?"

#

The cafe was spare and basic, but it was warm and the food edible, and of much better quality than Raymond's normal fare. He ate quickly, trying not to appear as though he was as ravenous as he was.

Smith waited until Ray had devoured most of his soup before speaking. "So, how are you doing, Ray?" he repeated.

"I'm getting by, just like everyone else. Why, how are you doing?"

"The same. Keeping body and soul together."

"Must be doing better than that, if you're offering someone one step removed from stranger a meal."

"Stranger - ? Well, I suppose I deserved that. Look, I'm sorry -"

"What, you're sorry about the past? That summer? Disappearing from the face of the earth? Well, forget it, we've all moved on. Nothing to be sorry for; there's a war on, after all."

"No, things did happen. That summer wasn't the end of it, by any means. But you disappeared and we couldn't find you, so we had to go on without you."

"So why're you taking to me now?"

"Because some old ghosts have come back to resurface. Because you're a damn good actor. And because there may be a role for you, the role of a lifetime, if you still feel the way that you did before."

 _The play's the thing._ "'The role of a lifetime' - that's what you said the last time we were in the same place. What role?"

"Can't explain here. But if you're interested, let's go for a walk."

Green Park was slightly chilly; but, stomach full for the first time in a long time, Doyle didn't feel the cold as much through his jacket. In another time he would have even felt moved to feed the ducks. But bread was too dear, and few ducks had escaped being caught for dinner pots, anyway.

They'd moved away from the few others out on the path. "So what we didn't know was that we _had_ caught the attention of the resistance. Shortly after we cleared out of the apartment, they made contact, tied up a few remaining loose ends on that last incident. They took us in, gave us proper training, made us more efficient. We're with them still, providing assistance on various assignments as needed.

"By the time they came for us, and all this had happened, you'd left and were unreachable. No one knew where you'd gone off to, so we couldn't contact you – as simple as that. It was by accident that Lucy saw you in the street a few weeks back and tailed you to your lodgings. You've been checked out, researched, and you've come up clean. So we've decided to see if you're still interested."

"Interested in what? And how do you know I won't go to the authorities, have you done for being traitors?"

"You? Come now, Ray. You have an incredible sense of justice, of right and wrong. And you have always believed in the rightness of our cause. Plus there's the matter of a night one summer about four years ago. You were there, you would be considered an accessory at the very least.

"But I don't think there's anything to worry about on that score. As I said, you _believe_ that the occupation is wrong and should be resisted as much as possible. Our work taps in to things you are good at and like to do – or at least you did four years ago. We can give you the opportunity to do those things."

"So, what's the catch?"

"No catch. You can think about it, decide if you want to come back. If you want to back out, you can. You haven't seen anyone beyond me, you don't know where we're at. We'll never make contact again – and you won't be able to find us. But if you do decide to rejoin, we'll make sure you get the training and support that you would need.

"But, Ray – if you do decide to come back, that is it. There's no backing out after that point."

Ray remembered the food rations that Anna had received as Mrs. Eastaughffe, the tea that he'd just been fed. The thrill of the stage, the performance. And how cold it was in Cousin Helen's rooms. He already knew what his answer would be, though he didn't want to appear too eager.

"Okay, I'll think about it. How do I find you again if I want to go ahead?"

"Come back here to the park on Thursday at 3 pm. We'll take steps at that time."

"Okay, will do. Anything else?"

"No, Ray; just that you have a lot of potential. You always have. I won't say bye for now, but I do hope to see you again soon." Smith turned and left.

Doyle watched him move away and blend into the tree line. Going back with them was preferable to starving to death. And Smith was right – he did still believe there was a way of shaking off the occupation, there had to be. He'd just allowed himself to get ground down.

Smith always had been good at convincing people to his way of thinking, after all.

#

They halted before a small dark doorway down a small, dark alley. Frankly, in Doyle's eyes, it looked like the place had been forgotten by city surveyors in the prior century, and no self-respecting criminal would be caught dead going down it. _Or maybe the only way they'd be caught going down it was dead._

That, he supposed, was why it worked so well as a meeting point.

He'd gone back to Green Park on Thursday, as he'd known he would; as he was sure Smith had known he would. They'd met by the duck pond; then, with a grunt and a nod, they'd headed off across half of Lundenburh. He'd considered himself fairly knowledgeable about the city, having traveled various places for odd jobs and scavenging; but he'd never known about the alley that Smith had taken him to, and the doorway they now faced.

"Go on." Nodding at the door, Smith broke the silence, and Raymond knocked.

There was a rumble from deep inside; then the sound of locks turning, and finally the door opened. No one appeared to be on the other side. "Go on," Smith repeated. "It's okay. Just a precaution with a newcomer."

They entered a low corridor lined with crates and packing boxes. Smith let him lead, and they progressed farther into the warren until finally they entered a small office, just big enough for the desk and chairs before it. A gooseneck lamp perched atop the desk provided for a bit of illumination. Behind the desk sat an older man with a clerk's visor across his forehead and a serious look across his brow. "Come in, laddie, have a seat. Both of you." He gestured towards the chairs.

"Ray. This is..." Smith looked at the man, who answered, "George."

"George," Smith repeated, as though it had just been agreed upon. _Probably not his real name anyway_ , Doyle considered.

 _Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound._ "Ray Doyle." Ray stuck his hand out.

"Yes, I know." The man shook briefly, then let go. "So, you're interested in joining our merry band, are you?"

"S'one way of putting it."

"But don't think of us as just a meal ticket, young Raymond. There is much more going on here, and much will be asked of you. Now, I understand that you were involved in the Bromwicham affair, which bought your troupe to our attention?"

Ray nodded.

"And you were the chauffeur for Mrs. Eastaughffe?"

"Yes, I was."

"So you got a good look at the house and the servants. And I believe you met Mr. William Andrew Phillip Bodie as well?"

"Yes, he came out a few times, let me know when Anna – Mrs. Eastaughffe was ready to leave." _Got a good look indeed; no one so evil should be so good-looking._ Doyle definitely remembered that. Clearly.

"That's interesting. So – you only spoke about Mrs. Eastaughffe, then?"

"Yes, very short conversations. I spent much more time with the household staff, down in the kitchen."

"Not a total loss, but very interesting." George looked at Smith.

"What George means to say, Doyle, is that we overlooked something about Bodie that we've learned since. Remember how he would talk to Anna, would spend time with her, but the operation itself never seemed to progress much beyond that?"

"How could anyone forget? It was a source of annoyance because we spent so much money and he wouldn't take the next logical step."

"Well, there was a reason for that. Mr. Bodie, it turns out, plays both sides of the fence."

 _What?_ Doyle was confused, and it showed on his face.

"What Smith means, Ray Doyle, is that Mr. Bodie is bisexual. And while he may have eventually been charmed by Anna's Mrs. Eastaughffe, he prefers those of his own sex."

"Oh." This had not occurred to Doyle at all.

"And," Smith continued, "if we'd realised that, you might've been the more appropriate choice to go after him."

"Oh." _Oh._

"So we have a new basis for an operation," Smith continued.

"Yes – with you as bait, we can most likely reel the fish in – and gut him," George added.

"And that's the role we need you for, Ray. Do you think you can do it?"

He thought beyond the security of the operation; to those blue, blue eyes, and the traitor behind them; and to his own private urges that he'd never revealed. Which he could indulge in for a time, all the while working to better his country. What else could he say?

"Is this about attraction, or sex?"

George's gaze never wavered. "I won't lie, Doyle, it's probably both. Based on his record, I can't see Bodie interested in admiring from afar for long."

Doyle looked at the intense look on Smith's face, willing him to nod acquiescence. The solid brown eyes gazing at him. _If I do this... you might've been a distraction, once._ He'd known at the time, but hadn't quite realised. But that was then, and this was now.

He nodded yes.


	2. Chapter 2

_The play's the thing,_ indeed.

There were tasks to do, and preparations to be made, but the time seemed to speed by Raymond – no, he was once again Ray – quickly. He told Cousin Helen some vague ramblings about a job he'd found with room and board; as he'd expected, she didn't put up much resistance, almost immediately starting to natter on about the neighbour's son Robert who'd done for her long before he'd shown up. He didn't have much in the way of clothing and belongings to concern himself over, so they went into a ratty satchel, to be discarded once he was out Cousin Helen's door.

Cousin Helen rarely went out, although she could have stood some fresh air, and he wouldn't be near this part of Lundenburh anymore, so he figured that this would be their last goodbye. At least until the occupation was over, and then he could go anywhere he wanted. That was what this was all about, wasn't it?

"Leaving now, Cousin Helen. You should be fine for the next day and a half, and then Robert will stop by."

She didn't look up from her crossword.

He felt he should say  _something_. "Thank you for taking me in when I came to Lundenburh. Much appreciated."

"Yes, yes," she waved him away, "just be sure to pull the door to behind you."

#

His instructions were to return to the duck pond, where he'd be picked up and taken to a safehouse. He supposed all these precautions were necessary, since he was still new, but he was eager to get started. And start him they did: he was taken into the borough of Gislandune, a few kilometres north of central Lundenburh, and fitted for a new wardrobe; he was also taken to a dilapidated warehouse, where he was given basic combat training. He lived a regimented life, where every minute was accounted for and dictated to him. The meals he was fed were spare, but he still ate better than he had in years, possibly since the beginning of the war. And through all this his constant companion was Smith; he never spent significant time with anyone else beyond the strangers they passed in the street.

"Thought you said the others were involved?" he asked Smith after a few days. "Been here for a while now, and all I've seen is your ugly mug, not even the old man's. Don't think you're running the place quite yet."

"They are involved, to varying degrees; you don't need to meet them at this point. Nothing to question here, Doyle; this is a tight ship, and there's a lot to do. I'm your contact for now. Everything will happen as it needs to."

"'M not just a puppet, Smith. And what about my role? How do I prep for it if I don't know how to play it?"

"A little patience, Ray!" Smith actually grinned, an action whose occurrence Doyle could count on the fingers of one hand. "We've got some possibilities; we have to explore _how_ possible they are. That's mainly what the others are working on right now. Don't worry, you'll be briefed and you'll be deeply involved in what you need to do. Right now we just have to make sure you're battle-ready."

The clothes came back, and he was told to try them on. They weren't too fancy; after all, ex-chauffeurs weren't exactly known to be fitted by Savile Row. But they were solid and clean, befitting someone living by his wits and fairly successful at it.

"You look good, Doyle. Very good, almost a bit of the rough trade. The Traitor's not the only one you'll have after you."

 _What the hell is he talking about?_ He looked in the mirror. The stranger in it glared back at him with a touch of menace, more than ready to do his job. His clothes looked to be an extension of him, a bit close-fitted but adding an air of self-aware confidence. _Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under 't._ It _was_ the role of a lifetime, and he was more than equal to the challenge.

#

One afternoon saw them in a particularly strenuous workout with daggers. Normally, Doyle found these frustrating. It wasn't as though he'd never handled a knife before, the reformatory had made sure of that. But Smith danced and moved around him, a target he couldn't quite pin down. Perhaps it was the sun streaming through the grimy windows of the warehouse, or the background preparations he wasn't a part of, or his frustration at training and not <i> _doing_ ; but Doyle felt a rush of anger consume him, and went full-force after Smith. No niceties, no Marquess of Queensbury – this was street fighting, dirty and simple.

Taken by surprise, Smith hadn't expected the attack. He was driven back by Doyle, who then proceeded to trip him up and bring the dagger to his neck. The guard on the blade had slipped, and a red bead formed on Smith's neck.

"Enough, Doyle!" There was a grin on Smith's face, but a bit of alarm in his eyes.

Doyle pulled back, rolling over and up to sit on his haunches, glaring and panting like a wild animal.

"Well, then." Smith slowly got up, rubbing at his neck. "We'll have to work on the guards on the practice blades. But you, my friend – " he directed that at Doyle, brightening considerably, "I believe you're just about ready." He grinned once again, and reached out his hand. "Time to take a little trip."

#

A different location, a different maze – and "George" was waiting for them behind the same desk.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Doyle. Smith here tells me you've come along quite well."

Doyle made himself comfortable as possible on the hard wooden chair, but kept up his guard as he always did in front of George. "Put my best into it, sir."

"Ah, yes, laddie, that you have. And now comes the hardest part." The hand reached out and deposited a folder in front of Doyle. "This is who you are, who you need to be. Study it, know it, then destroy it."

"Hold on a minute – thought I would have some say in this. Can't just walk in and pretend to be anybody off the street."

"Doyle," Smith uttered in measured tones, "this is nothing different than what we did before, in Bromwicham. And while you have flexibility in how you play it, there are only so many scenarios we can set up for you. You can't pull off dropping by as the queen, after all."

"Thought that was what you wanted me to do, after all. _"_ But he took the folder, and opened it.

#

Doyle huddled down in his jacket, then fought the urge and readjusted his posture. The idea was to see and be seen. He rolled his shoulders and reached out, picking up the pint, lifting it to his lips.

_No need to overdo it. Just look like you're in your thoughts, a bit down on your luck._

He took another sip, then lowered the glass.

"Ray?"

_Turn, with surprise that someone knows you here._

"Duncan, right? Ray Duncan?"

 _Look confused._ "Sorry, mate – you look familiar, but not sure I can place you."

"Malcolm. Malcolm Andrews. Work at the Bodie mansion, in the kitchens. You're Ray Duncan, I'd recognize that curly top anywhere. You work for the young miss – Miss Eastaughffe? Her driver, if I remember correctly."

"Malcolm Andrews – yes, I do remember you from a few years back." Ray remembered him as an affable sort, who would always find sunshine in rainclouds. "Mrs. Eastaughffe, and yes, I was her chauffeur."

"Was? Sorry to hear that. You were a damn good driver, and knew yer motors as well. Surprised she wouldn't keep someone as valuable as you."

"Well, we're been through a war, haven't we? Mrs. Eastaughffe found it necessary to cut back, went to live with her sister. And it's hard enough to find a respectable position even when times are good."

"So what have you been doing since?"

"Whatever I can, picking up odd bits here and there. Not a whole lot to do, though, these days."

"S'truth, and a true shame... well, I'll keep an eye open if I hear of anything. Might be able to get you entry to a service somewhere in town; enough of the boys being conscripted, after all. I'll ask around." He took a pull from his pint as Ray gave his thanks. "But have you been in Lundenburh long? This your local? Haven't seen you in here before."

"Well, been in town a while, but changed rooms a few weeks ago. Been here maybe once or twice before this."

"Well, good to see you. Sure I'll be seeing you again. And I'll keep you in mind."

"Thanks, mate. S'appreciated."

"Anytime."

#

Several more weeks passed before Ray saw Malcolm Andrews again. But there he was, waving as he approached. "Ray! Glad I ran into you, mate."

"Malcolm - a pleasure as always." Ray Duncan offered. "Have a seat. What can I get you?"

"Got something for you - we're hiring at the house. A couple of the boys got called up, and we're short-handed enough as it is. Mentioned I'd seen you down the local; since everyone already knows you, they'd like you to come in. Not specifically driving, mind; we still have old Hudson, though he's getting older every day. But he can use a hand with the duties and the maintenance, plus there are odd jobs about the place that need doing. Do you have references?"

"Yes, Mrs. Eastaughffe was more than happy to send me off with some letters; I'd been with her family for years."

"Fine, then. Mondays are rather busy at the house, but stop by Tuesday next and we'll have you through the old place."

"Are you sure, Malcolm? Don't want to put you out."

"Not at all. It'd be great to work with you, used to enjoy it when you stopped by with yer lady."

"Really appreciate it, Malcolm. I'll be there, then. Here, let me buy you a pint."

"Well, get the position first! And then we'll celebrate, good and proper. On our day off, of course."

"Of course," Ray smiled back.

 _And thus Act One comes to a close._ His smile widened.


	3. Chapter 3

Doyle easily integrated into the rhythm and flow of the Bodie household. First he met with the housekeeper, Mrs. Greene, and head steward Mr. James; both remembered him as a polite, quiet, deferential lad, and he was welcomed without much more effort.

Newly hired and initiated, he was to go back to his rooms and bring his belongings over straightaway. The household bestowed upon him a small, slightly dark, but more than adequate space with a bed, washstand, and dresser to keep his belongings. More than sufficient; and, until recently, more than he'd had in a very long time. Doyle was in no way uncomfortable with his situation, although it wouldn't be a location where he could carry out his objective.

The target of his objective, however, was a bit elusive at the moment. Master Bodie was away on business, he was told, and the mistress was off visiting. There was more than enough work to keep the household engaged, and with all his tasks Doyle could well see how he could slip away unnoticed on occasion; however, as busy as he was, he was a bit concerned that he would be too busy to easily find The Traitor – if the man wasn't to be away from the house most of the time.

And then there was the house itself. A huge mansion with at least six bedrooms that he'd seen, it had pride of place on the most prominent street in Chelsey. He'd never really known just who Bodie was in the old days, although he'd had an inkling of new money. For someone who had come from basically nothing, however, Master Bodie was doing quite well for himself.

But then again, he was a traitor, and traitors had no soul, and would do anything for their selfish goals.

Doyle regarded himself in the washstand mirror. "'If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.' Chance may have presented you with good fortune, Master Bodie – or rather, you may have grabbed it from her hand; but chance will come for payment soon enough."

#

Officially, Doyle had been brought in as a houseman, to carry out various maintenance tasks around the house; in truth, he did whatever needed doing, from helping Hudson with the motors to moving furniture for the maids. It wasn't very hard work, as Doyle was young and healthy and not afraid to use his muscles. It also helped keep him in shape for what would need to be done later. Occasionally, as he moved one of the heavy chairs in the study for Suzy, a vivacious maid with an entertaining catalogue of stories about the household, or crawled under the limousine as Hudson gave him instructions that were invariably correct, he wondered what they would think of him if they knew just who - or what - he was.

#

There was quite a stir in the house the day the staff received word that Master and Mistress Bodie were due back. The notices sent the maids into a frenzied round of cleaning. Old Hudson had Doyle assist him with a very thorough overhaul of the motors; while Mr. James, the head butler, and Mrs. Greene, the housekeeper, went through the house - and the staff - from top to bottom. Doyle was more exhausted by the constant demands on his time then the actual work, but he managed to maintain the focus which Smith and George had fostered in him and got through his assigned tasks.

And he watched, and he waited.

Soon enough, the day came, and they all were lined up in the front hall to welcome the master and mistress home.

"...And ma'am, sir, this is the new lad, Duncan, brought on about two months ago after Barnes and Morris left service."

"Ma'am, Sir," Doyle demurred. _Traitorous bastards._

"Welcome, Duncan," Mistress Bodie replied. She seemed more tired than anything.

"Thank you, Mr. James. Duncan, is it? Have we met before?" The blue eyes lazily grazed over him.

"Actually, yes, sir. I used to drive for Mrs. Eastaughffe."

"Ah, yes. A shame, that."

"Yes, sir." _She should have killed you when she had the chance._

"I hope she is well. Why don't you stop by later and you can give me some news of her, as well as tell me how you're settling in."

"Yes, sir, I will."

Master Bodie nodded his head, and the threesome continued on.

"And Stewart the hall boy..."

 _Yes, sir_ , Doyle ruminated. _I will be * **sur** e* to stop by._

#

Several days more passed, however, before Ray was called to the study.

The room in question was a small, dark-panelled space, full of furniture and books and the results of much toil and effort over the compact wooden desk. It was neat, but it was far from spare. It also looked like it could hold much, much information for one who knew where to look.

The door always had been locked, however, when Ray had passed by this part of the mansion in the past; he'd never been able to gain egress before.

In the middle of the nest sat the traitor, king of all he surveyed. It made Doyle's blood race.

"Sir?" The deference came as somewhat of an effort. Doyle focused on being Ray Duncan. _What would Duncan do with this meeting?_ He let the lazy grin flash across his face, shifted his weight so his hip thrust out.

"Ah, there you are, Duncan. And quite happy to see me, as well." Mr. Bodie swept a broad glance up Duncan's frame. "So, you've joined us as a houseman, then. How do you find the work?"

"Quite well, sir. The staff has been quite accommodating in helping me get incorporated into the workflow."

"And your room is sufficient?"

"Quite, sir. I appreciate having my own room."

"Well, we appreciate how hard the staff works here, especially in these times. Sometimes it is beneficial to have one's own room with a measure of privacy."

Mr. Bodie stood up and walked around the desk, perching himself on the carved edge. "And, so, Ray Duncan, what brings you to my door?"

"Sir?" Duncan's confusion wasn't entirely faked.

"What happened with your prior position, and why don't you still have it?"

 _Ah._ "Well, Mr. Bodie, Mrs. Eastaughffe was feelin' the effects of the war, with how long it's gone on and everything. She felt it better to close up her house and stay with her sister for now. She let us all go with her recommendation. I decided to work my way to Lundenburh and seek opportunity here. Ran into Malcolm Andrews in the local, and he let me know of an opening in the house. Am very pleased that this worked out, too, as I enjoyed the time I spent with your staff while serving Mrs. Eastaughffe."

"Thought I told you to take care of Mrs. Eastaughffe?"

"Sir?" This time his confusion was completely real.

"Your mistress – if she had to let you go, you haven't taken care of her."

"Couldn't stop the war, though, now could I?" _Although I'm trying my best._ "Would have loved to serve for free, but one has to put food in one's belly, as inconvenient as that might be."

"Your belly seems to be doing fine. Or at least a little better than it had been doing four years ago."

"Sir?"

Mr. Bodie pushed himself off the desk, and stood close before Duncan, drilling him with those deceptively innocent blue eyes.

"You've filled out, matured, though you still look like a good wind would break you in half."

"I'm strong enough, sir, and I put in a good day's work, make sure all my duties are completed."

"No, I'm sure you're more than up to anything that we can throw at you. You'll have the chance to prove that, though."

"Yes, sir." Doyle breathed the words.

Mr. Bodie paused for a minute, just staring at Doyle. Doyle thought the man might lean forward and – No, the traitor stepped back a bit, then went back to sit behind the desk.

"Well, then, Duncan, welcome. If you have any questions or need things to fulfill your duties you should let Mr. James know. My sister and I look forward to having you as an integral part of the functioning of the house." The man looked down, already back to engrossing himself in the papers he'd been working on.

Some wall had clearly gone up between them.

"Yes, sir." Doyle was confused. _What happened? Hadn't he been interested?_

"Was there something else?"

"No, sir." He moved out, closing the door behind him. His last view was of Mr. Bodie, pen in hand, about to strike something out on a page.

He couldn't tell how well that had gone at all.

#

Doyle never had been a fan of trams. They swerved and arced, stopped and started, and basically made too many motions for an object stuck on a track, going from point A to point B.

And yet he and Smith had chosen trams for their meetings. Perhaps it was someplace that their occupiers would have thought as too impractical and vertigo-inducing, as well.

He hopped aboard a car on the 37 East Ham line and moved towards the back. A labourer headed home, asleep on the bench, was jerked out of a sound sleep at Doyle's approach and moved his coat off the adjacent seat onto his own lap.

"Ta very much." Duncan nodded his head.

"Not a problem, mate."

Doyle glanced around at the other riders, who were absorbed in their evening papers or nodding off into their own worlds. "Well, then, my friend," he murmured, "can we arrange for a slightly later tram? It's a little hard to meet this without leaving the house early."

"I'll see what I can do, but we've got a tight schedule on our end as well."

"Well, do it soon, or I might miss more of these than I should."

"Okay, okay." Smith shifted in his seat to compensate for the slippery wood of the bench. "So tell me, what's happening in the magic castle?"

"Several things. Brother and Sister came back two days ago; he announced first, and she followed a couple of days later."

A woman stopped by them as she headed towards the exit, waiting for the tram to pull to a stop. "Was thinking of going to see the footie if I can get off. Not sure that I can; they're planning quite the shindig at the house this weekend."

"I see. Shame, that; I heard the game is set to be a good one."

The woman stared blandly at them for a second, then moved away and off the tram.

Doyle lowered his voice once again. "I also got into his office; he had me in to talk to the new lad. Quite a bit of potential material, although entry is near impossible. It's towards the back of the house."

"Okay, good to know. Keep checking access. And - anything you'd want to tell you sainted mother? Or not?"

Doyle gave him a withering look. "You come from a long line of gossipers, I bet."

"Merely my job, old son, merely my job – as you well know."

Doyle chose not to pursue that line of inquiry any further. "Well, in fact there were some signs of progress. We had the one meeting, which was headed in the right direction – and then he pulled back. He is aware that I'm there, however, and there will be of necessity other interactions."

"Well, work on that - and this time you might want to keep in mind what Anna went through."

"And Anna had no chance, now did she? She doesn't have what he's looking for. We spent a whole summer chasing the wrong dog."

"Well, just make sure you don't spend months chasing the right dog, as you put it. The stakes are higher now, and there is a lot more to lose the longer this takes."

"I know my job, you, and I know how to play it. We now have the information that you overlooked four years ago. This time, the whole thing will be successful."

"Just make sure it is, then. I'm not the one to be concerned about if it isn't; our older gentleman friend will have your hide if it doesn't turn out well."

"A lot more people than him will have my hide if it doesn't, as we all know. I know what I'm doing."

The car chose just then to make a particularly sharp turn. Doyle shifted into Smith, pressed up against him for just a second, then quickly righted himself. It didn't feel as... comfortable as Doyle would have wanted; but then again, it was so brief.

He adjusted himself on the seat. "Can we go back to the meetings in the park? I'm liable to get seasick from much more of this trip."

"Strangers don't randomly meet in the park, old son; perverts do. Strangers meet on trams. But don't worry yourself over it; as I said, I'll work on it."

The bell sounded overhead, and the car slowed to a stop.

"This is me, old son," Smith announced loudly. "Good luck with your job. And have an enjoyable day."

"Have a good day yourself, mate." Doyle thought that an exceptionally fine piece of acting on his part.

#

Doyle hadn't been lying when he'd mentioned a party at the house; in fact, the Bodie siblings had arranged for a gathering on the following weekend. It wasn't to be as grandiose as those affairs that he'd driven Mrs. Eastaughffe to in the past; they were, of course, several years into a taxing occupation. But it was meant to be a gathering of the elite all the same, with food and entertainments clearly reflecting that fact.

Duncan had been all over the house during the preparations: first assisting the maids with moving the heavy furniture for cleaning, then hauling provisions for Cook, and polishing silver with the hall boy, under the supervision of the butler. Things were finally almost in place bar the actual event, and his role in the proceedings had concluded; he was headed back to his room to change for a meeting on the tram, when his name floated out from the parlour. He turned into the room, hoping that his clothes weren't untidy enough to leave a bad impression. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Duncan will have to do," Miss Bodie gestured towards him, still in what must have been a deep conversation with Mr. James, the butler. "We don't have time to find anyone else, and he should be able to fit John's suit.

"Duncan," she then turned to him. "John, the footman, took an unfortunate spill this afternoon, while bringing some supplies from the storeroom. He will be fine, but he can't bear any weight on his ankle. In the meantime, you will fill in his place serving tonight."

"Ma'am?" He'd never served a meal anywhere before, never had been asked to. It would keep him away from his meeting with Smith, and he wouldn't have time to explore ways of entering Mr. Bodie's back study, his other planned activity for the evening while the house was focused on the party.

"We have an emergency, Duncan and you're best suited to fill in," Mr. James continued. "It will be a simple handling of platters, no actual serving. I can more or less direct you, but you will need to be present in the dining room."

"And you'll need to dress the part," Miss Bodie continued. "There's not much we can do about your hair – though it does give you a certain charm – but you'll have to wear one of John's suits. You're taller than he is, although I think we can cover it up enough so it doesn't look <i> _too_ </i> untoward. And Mr. James," she switched her attention back to the butler, "just make sure he has the rudimentaries. He may not have to serve directly, but we need to think of all the possibilities."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Duncan, I'm sure you'll be fine, I'm told that you're a quick lad and have picked up a lot since you've come to the house. Just be sure to keep your eyes and ears open, and follow Mr. James's lead, and all should go well - like clockwork."

"Yes, ma'am," Doyle replied, trying not to think of the missed meeting.

#

The party turned out to be a relaxed affair, all told. The guests were arranged around the grand dining room table, lively conversations racing amongst them. Duncan had little to be worried about; most of his duties involved bringing in various platters of meats, potatoes, and vegetables, and holding them at table height as Mr. James doled out portions; or trekking to the kitchen to replenish beverages as needed. He noted Miss Bodie sending him a quick smile once or twice, and John's suit felt a little tight on him; but most of the guests never noted his presence. He supposed that he must be doing something correctly.

Although Mr. Bodie sat at the head of the table, elegant in a bespoke suit, this was very much Miss Bodie's party. She had announced the migration from the parlour to the dining room, guided guests to their places, monitored the various discussions, and otherwise steered the evening along. Mr. Bodie seemed more than happy to let her take the reins, gracious to the guests yet only involving himself when it was unavoidable.

And he didn't seem to notice Duncan at all.

Finally, the diners had drifted away from the table, the men towards billiards, cigars and port; the women towards living room conversations. Mr. James and Duncan were in the midst of efficiently removing traces of the meal, Duncan on his way back from the kitchen to clear more plates from the table.

"Duncan," sounded out from down the hall behind him. "Please come here for a minute."

It was Mr. Bodie.

Doyle was a little peeved, but hopeful; he'd had no contact with the man since the earlier discussion in the office but this could pay off missing his meeting with Smith. _What could you want now, Traitor, of all times?_

"Yes, sir"; and Duncan was headed off down the hall, towards the voice.

Mr. Bodie stood at the door to his office. "Come in."

Duncan passed him to walk through the door. A fire was burning in the grate, although the man had been at the dinner for the past two hours. A decanter and a tumbler sat on the desk itself.

He turned to face his employer, and was immediately flung into the door as it closed.

"What – sir -" he had to be careful to read the situation before measuring the correct response.

"What the hell are you playing at, Duncan?"

"Sir - I don't understand -"

"The downstairs isn't enough? Now you're parading yourself around as a footman?" Mr. Bodie had him pinned uncomfortably to the door, and there was no room to move.

"John the footman fell this afternoon, and Miss Bodie asked me to fill in," Duncan kept his voice measured, with just a touch of confusion, although he was getting angrier by the second. "They had me wear his suit; not my fault it's small - "

"Provocative, you mean. You've left little to the imagination! I don't want my guests thinking this is anything less than a respectable house."

Duncan was suitably cowed, but Doyle would not let this go unanswered. "Sir, your sister inspected me herself and said it was sufficient for the job at hand. I do trust her judgment, especially since this was her decision to carry out."

"Don't play with me, Duncan. You don't know what you're getting into, lad, if you take me on."

Mr. Bodie let Duncan go and pushed away a bit; just staring at him, a wild look in his eyes. Doyle was unsure what was going through the man's head; he had thought his lack of experience in actual sexual matters would be a positive in approaching the traitor, but he was truly out of his comfort zone in approaching this situation.

He decided to go with his gut instinct.

"Sir," he straightened out his tie and jacket, pulling them just so, "I need to get back to the dining room. They'll be wondering where I've gotten off to, in the middle of work. But if you need me to return, to clarify the situation," he paused, adding silence that he would let Mr. Bodie fill as he wished, "I can come back later in the evening, once you have discharged your duties to your guests."

The wild look tamed a bit, as his employer seemed to gather his wits. "No, you should go back. I may have misjudged the situation, and can discuss this with my sister later."

Doyle deflated a bit. _Doesn't want me back later. Another opportunity missed._ He turned to reach for the door, to return back down the hall, to the land of servants which he didn't seem to be able to move beyond.

A strong hand grabbed his upper arm, swinging him back around before he could close the door. Mr. Bodie inches away, looking into his eyes.

Duncan looked back, willing himself to be unafraid, opening himself up to the gaze, _challenging_ the other man.

 _How blue his eyes are,_ was the thought that was uppermost in his mind.

Whatever it was, Mr. Bodie thought better of it and let him go. "You're right; you have duties and so have I. Go back and finish with the clearing of the meal."

Duncan looked back at his employer, mostly defiant but slightly confused, then opened the door to tread softly back into the other part of the house.

Doyle had a slight but triumphant smile on his face.

#

"Nice of you to join us," Smith gave Doyle a sour look.

"Look, I told you – my time is not mine. If I'm told to do something, I have to do it. I was told to serve at this party, and that's what I did."

"Well, what do you have then?"

"They had their to-do, I had to cover for one of the footmen who'd injured himself. As we were cleaning up, he pulled me into the office and – well, I'm not quite sure. Seemed mad I was serving; didn't stop to think that maybe I'd had no choice in the matter. Had me up against the wall, wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss or kill me."

"Maybe both."

"Maybe. Frankly had me worried for a few minutes, whether I'd make it out of there again."

"Okay. Seems you have the in; do what you can to reel him in."

"That's my job."

"Yes, and this is my street. Talk to you soon, Raymondo."

"Ta."

#

"Ray, you're needed in Mr. James's office. Right away."

"Yes, Mrs. Greene." Ray put down the boxes he had been moving and wiped his hands on a nearby towel.

"Don't worry about changing or anything, they'll give you instructions once you've got there."

"Here, sir." Duncan slid into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Ah, good, Duncan. Just the man we need. You've been requested to drive Mr. Bodie this afternoon."

"Me?" Duncan's brow wrinkled, while Doyle's brow mentally twisted in a smirk.

"Yes, he asked specifically for you. Hudson's out for the day, and Mr. Bodie's plans changed unexpectedly. He's asked for you to take him instead.

"Just wash yourself up, and get yerself down to the garage in an hour's time. Yer street clothes are sufficient."

 _Curious, but I'll play along. No choice, after all._ "Yes, sir. Will be ready in an hour." Duncan turned to the door and started down the hall to prepare himself for the task at hand.

#

Duncan got into the car and turned the key of the ignition. The engine sprang to life, then purred into motion, the sound going some way towards calming Ray's nerves. He loved this part of the assignment, working with and maintaining the cars. _Nothing like a well-made motor._ He was finding working on them a surefire way to put himself at ease.

But today's task was a different beast. Today was beyond everyday tasks, keeping himself preoccupied while waiting for the operation to develop. Today, if he was reading it right, was what they had been waiting for, for four long years. What the early mistakes and the death-dealing and the years of exile had all been in aid of.

And there was no way he would allow that to fail.

He reran all the scenarios in his head, although by this point they were second nature: _Act innocent but turned on. Let him have the lead. Act like you can't live without it ._

_Eh, just get him to think with his dick. That would be easiest._

Snorting at his thoughts, he engaged the clutch and shifted the gear. The car moved forward.

#

The car slid to a stop in front of a nondescript apartment block.

Beyond a nod and a few terse directions, Mr. Bodie had been silent for the duration of the trip, seated in the back and reading papers from his briefcase. Ray thought it better to keep quiet, not attempt to initiate any conversations - _let him have the lead_ \- and for God's sake not to drive like a bat out of hell, which his instincts screamed at him to do.

He got out of the vehicle and walked around to the side, grabbing the door handle and opening the door for his master to exit. Mr. Bodie looked up, somewhat startled at the opening of the door, though he seemed to recover quickly.

"Ah," the blue eyes surveyed their surroundings. "Duncan, please bring the briefcase inside."

Ray gave the man a quick once-over, with what he hoped was a tense look. It wasn't much of an act; he definitely felt an electricity in the air, a tension that didn't need to be faked. "Yes, sir." Bodie slipped out of the car, then Doyle picked up the briefcase _need to find a way into this at some point_ , closed the door, and followed the man inside.

The shabby though clean interior was quiet shadows; no one seemed present to watch them traverse a wide marbled lobby to ascend a staircase. Doyle was a little curious why they weren't heading to the lift, but the silence was too large, too much between them for him to freely break it. It might be best for Bodie to have the lead, but the silence and tension were too alive to allow for anything else.

Once at the first floor, they moved down the hallway, their steps hushed by thick carpeting, until they reached room 27. Mr. Bodie pulled out a key and unlocked the door, which Doyle moved through at the other man's wave. "On the desk is fine."

He moved past a small bed to a smaller desk, where he laid the briefcase on the surface.

"Duncan."

Doyle turned slowly, making each second stretch out -

"Duncan."

\- And looked into the blue, blue eyes of this man who was the source of so much evil -

"Duncan ~" whispered like a dream.

Before he was sure of what was happening, Mr. Bodie had filled his entire range of senses, and a pair of lips crashed into his.

He had to fight the surprise and fear, the loss of control and options, and just let the man do what he wanted.

Not that this was completely objectionable; in fact, he found himself getting lost, floating away on the feelings ~

Mr. Bodie pulled back and looked at him, something raw in his face; then he grabbed Doyle by the upper arms and propelled him towards, then onto, the bed.

 _Let him take the lead._ As much as Doyle wanted to have a say in this, it wasn't something that Duncan would do.

He was flipped over, the other man's body pining him by weight.

_Deep breath, deep breath._

He just had to take deep breaths, just relax; this would be over soon enough. Nothing to it, nothing worse than the smashed cheek, or the beatings, or any of the myriad things he'd already lived up to this point in his life.

Mr. Bodie moved off him, looked at him with a focused stare.

"Take off your clothes."

I _nnocent but rebellious._ Duncan moved to stand, pausing to give his employer a steady look.

"Take them off before I rip them off – and whatever happens, they are the only clothes you'll be wearing back to the house."

Doyle said nothing. Bodie looked more than capable of carrying out the threat.

He removed his clothing, piece by piece. First, the jacket, then the trousers, then the shirt; one by one, quietly, smoothly, with a hint of eagerness underneath the hesitation.

_Oh, yes, Duncan wants this._

"Stop."

Doyle paused, thumbs hooked in his pants.

"Back on the bed. Face down."

He moved to the bed, took a deep breath, then laid down as instructed. Silent.

He felt the bed move, guessing that Mr. Bodie must be positioning himself on it. There was some shifting, as the other man apparently was removing his own clothing; but then Doyle's hands were manipulated behind his back, and something – a belt? - wound around his wrists, securing them firmly.

He began to worry.

Cool fingers slipped into his pants, slid against his skin – and jerked his pants down. Doyle bit his lip, hard.

And yet nothing was said.

Doyle felt a contest of wills, a battle going on which he was determined to win. So he said nothing, let the man continue.

"No need to hear you, sunshine," calmly stated, cut through the quiet; a band was tied around his mouth.

_Deep breath, deep breath._

Cool hands against his backside. The hands parted the cheeks of his buttocks, and something cold and slippery dripped down his crack. He couldn't completely suppress the shiver.

A finger touched, then probed the crack, then unexpectedly slipped into his anus. Surprised, he grunted into the gag.

One finger slipped in, and Doyle felt it; his instinct was to try to push it out, although he concentrated on his breathing, to calm the reaction.

A hand palmed one of his ass cheeks; there was even something that felt like a brief caress.

_In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four._

The reaction calmed, his body stilled. He'd gotten past the first part, which he thought would be the hardest.

Until a second finger joined the first.

He figured breathing was his only option.

Until something touched him inside, just so - and it was as though something had sparked, as though he'd touched a live wire.

The fingers moved – and there it was again. And it was waking up the rest of Doyle's body.

His breaths shifted from deep inhalations to pants. There was something inside, feeling like it wanted to bloom. It was gaining the interest of his dick as well.

It was the same feeling he'd felt once, in regards to Smith, except a hundredfold. No, a millionfold.

The fingers started a rhythm, and his hips started to respond, to move. This was a feeling so familiar yet so new, but his body seemed to know what to do.

If this were what the assignment would be like... He could get through this. He could. Happily.

A third finger went in. It was uncomfortable, but not as painful as the previous, and in fact he clumsily moved to his knees to take advantage of the feeling. The cool hands helped him to get into this new position, then resumed the rhythm again.

 _In and out, in and out, in and out._ His hips had the rhythm now, and moved in tandem.

And something felt like it was going to explode, it was coming closer and closer...

The fingers slid out. _No!_ He grunted into the gag. He was close, so close...

The bed moved beneath and behind him, then the hands were back, spreading his cheeks apart. He felt the lack of the fingers, wanted them back in, wanted to get to that place he'd felt coming every time that feeling happened.

And the other man was pushing back into him, which he welcomed, until he realised that it wasn't fingers, it was much broader and blunter. The cool hands held him steady, and the force kept pushing in him.

It was like nothing he'd ever felt before: a burning, a wrongness, and the hands still held him steady and immobile. He gasped in shock, before reining his reactions in and remembering where he was.

Except inexperienced Duncan _would_ react like this, wouldn't he?

Then the man behind him began to move.

Doyle had come from the country, known about animals and reproduction. He understood the mechanics of sex, what happened, but hadn't known or understood what the act meant on a personal level. Hadn't known about giving himself to a complete stranger, for that matter a hated traitor; hadn't understood the bleeding together of the personal and impersonal. The man – the unseen presence behind him was moving into a rhythm, taking his enjoyment, barely including Doyle beyond more than a willing receptacle.

And _Duncan_ ; the persona was at the edges of Doyle's consciousness, but he was still there. Doyle could just remember that Duncan had a role in all this, though the role didn't involve wanting to turn around, club the other man, and leave immediately for parts unknown.

Although, he mused, Duncan would likely be surprised at the way events were progressing.

He let out a low moan, as though he were slowly adapting, warming up to what was happening to his body.

Which wasn't exactly untrue.

Duncan was coming more into focus now.

The traitor was beginning to pant with his thrusts. Doyle's body had begun to adjust to the invasion, though he still wanted it over. Wanted to stop the loss of control.

Good thing the traitor couldn't see his face, but Doyle would know how to be careful in the future.

And the operation would be over soon enough and he could get back to his own life, move on to new assignments. And this wouldn't happen too many more times.

The pants turned into grunts, and the driving thrusts began to shed the control behind them. The hands holding him still grabbed him tightly, and the other man pulsed into him.

One of those pulses – hit _that_ spot again, making Doyle gasp and lose control, throwing his head back, tightening a bit. The other man moaned loudly, and pulsed more rapidly.

And then he was done, and was pulling out, collapsing next to Doyle.

Doyle rolled onto his side, away from the man. He was terribly sore - on fire, frankly - _and_ felt an unfulfilled clench inside, but a smile coated his face.

 _Contact._ He'd succeeded where Anna hadn't - couldn't.

Things would more forward from here.


	4. Chapter 4

The trip back to the mansion was made in silence. Mr. Bodie sat in the back of the motor, preoccupied with paperwork, indifferent to all else. Doyle steered the car through the streets, avoiding any close analysis of the prior hours.

He swung the car around to the front of the mansion, then jumped out to open the car door for his master. The other man slid out of the car and into the entrance without a word. Doyle drove the car to the garage, parked it and perfunctorily checked the vehicle, then entered the house and headed straight for his room.

Nothing to think about. Nothing at all.

#

The soreness lasted about a day and a half; Doyle ignored the longer-lasting sense of confusion. It was for a greater cause, after all.

#

For the next week, Doyle was kept busy with various chores around the house; another of the boys had been conscripted, and the chores were split up among even fewer servants. He wasn't called upon to serve again.

#

"What the hell is the problem, Doyle?"

Seated next to Doyle in the rear of the freezing, almost deserted tram, Smith was not best pleased with the proceedings.

"Thought you were so sure of yourself, had everything under control. Had him wrapped around your finger, you did." The quiet fuming charged the air between them; Doyle could almost see the steam rising from the finely shaped skull.

Even the streetcar joined in the anger, lurching them around a curve.

Doyle wasn't about to surrender this, was going to give as good as he got. "Can't do anything if I can't _see_ him, now can I? He's not called for me since the one time. Not even sure half the time he's in the house, there's been talk of meetings that have kept him away in the past few weeks."

"And why don't you have information about those 'meetings'? What do you think you've been placed in there for?" Smith looked at him straight on, eyes narrowing on Doyle. "Look, are you having second thoughts?"

"Of course not." Doyle sucked his breath in, disgusted, not sure if he were more insulted by the accusation of betraying the cause or falling for the traitor. "In for a penny, in for a pound; was clear about that from the beginning. I dearly want to see him pay - for all the years of damage he's done, for all the lives he's taken as surely as if he'd pulled a trigger. Every single second of those years. Am more than happy to sacrifice myself for that, no questions asked."

"Good, Doyle, because as I said when we first met - there is no going back. Once you're in, you're in."

"And as I said before, _I'm in_. Permanently. No reason to hand out ultimatums as though they're going out of style, as I've been working on ways to get to him. That's the part you've neglected to ask about so far, sunshine. Just can't walk up to him and lay myself out on the carpeting; Mrs. Greene would have something to say about that. But this play is far from over."

"Fine, then." Smith looked partially mollified, though Doyle knew that that could change easily. His compatriot stood and adjusted his peacoat. "And this is my stop, so I am off. Just make sure you keep working at it. I'll see you again in a few days."

Doyle saw a bit - just a bit - of the Smith that had always drawn him in, in the sweep of the broad shoulders that floated from the tram into the darkness.

If only there had never been a war and an occupation. A mission and a Mr. Bodie.

If only the world had been different.

#

"Duncan! DUNCAN! Where is that lad?" sounded from the hall. Doyle, in the far pantry, put down the silver tray he'd been about to carry into the kitchen.

"DUNC- oh, there you are. Where have you been, lad? Oh, nevermind. Go clean yerself up; you're needed upstairs."

That could mean only one thing. _That's a change. The game is afoot!_ "Yes, Mrs. Greene, ma'am, will be right there. Shall I take the motor out, then?"

"Dunno, now do I? All I know is, they asked for you. Get a move on, boy."

#

Mr. James was waiting for him in the main hall. "Ah, Duncan, there you are. Mr. Bodie requires the car this afternoon, and has asked for you. The car's around front – already been brought around – and you're to take him straightaway. He'll tell you the destination once he gets in."

#

Duncan pulled the car up to the door of the apartment block and turned off the motor, unsure whether the butterflies in his stomach were from dread or anticipation.

They crossed the silent, shabby lobby, ascended the stairs, stopped at Room 27. Mr. Bodie opened the door and slipped in; he followed the broad back into the room, shut the door, and placed the briefcase on the desk as before.

Not a word had been said, nothing communicated beyond a few gestures.

Moving to the bed, he lifted the cap from his curls and moved to place it on a chair.

"No, not yet." Mr. Bodie's words froze his arm in motion. "Don't take it off yet."

Mr. Bodie moved to the desk and, opening the briefcase, pulled something from the papers stacked neatly inside. He stepped over to Duncan, looked him in the eye, then stepped around behind him. Something floated down from over his head and was pulled over his face, effectively blocking his sight. Two hands took hold of his shoulders, then spun him around until he was disoriented and had almost lost his balance.

"Okay, Duncan, now you may undress," the deep voice commanded.

_Fun and games with Mr. Bodie. Does he like sexual sport, then? That didn't come up in the briefing materials._ Thoughtful, Duncan reached up to take off the cap.

"The chair is to your left." _Good, then the bed should be in front of me._ He placed the cap where he believed the chair should be, following it with his jacket, shirt, trousers, and pants, all neatly folded, until he stood naked but for the blindfold.

"Now turn halfway and sit."

Doyle fought to keep the grimace from his face. _That would put me on the floor! Duncan, though, would obey without question, because this is his employer, there is a war on, and he wouldn't feel like he had a choice._ He did as he was bid and sat, preparing for a landing but getting a jolt as he found himself on the bed.

"Not quite where you were expecting. And none too happy about that, are you?" in answer to the twist of Doyle's lip. "Now shift up to the middle of the bed and stretch your hands above your head."

Duncan slid further onto the bed, until he thought he was more or less in position.

He heard soft noises, as though Mr. Bodie might be undressing; then his wrists were secured in something soft but unyielding, like the cloth over his eyes.

A few more noises barely scratched the quiet of the room, and then -

Something, like the burn of an acid, drilled into his chest. He hissed, almost yelling, as the pain settled into cold.

"Just an ice chip, Duncan. You are responsive, though." A warm roughness smoothed the spot. _Tongue?_ "I bet I can get through that facade of yours, could make you scream. Wouldn't need to hurt you, either."

Duncan might be obedient, but Doyle decided he wouldn't give him the luxury of screaming.

Something touched his nose, and he instinctively blew at it; it wasn't until the second touch that he realised what it was. _Feather. At least I can anticipate how that will feel._

The feather lightly traced his lips, then drew back. A soft brush briefly caressed the lines of his throat. _Working his way down._ Duncan swallowed.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, except for some faint breaths. Doyle wasn't sure for a moment whether the sounds were coming from him or Mr. Bodie. Just as he was getting deep into speculating Mr. Bodie's actions, the faintest touch circled a nipple: light, teasing, gentle.

Surprisingly, he felt the lightest response in his groin.

The feather played over his nipple, teasing, then pulled back.

He licked his lips, felt the loss.

Something then danced around the crease of his pubic area, then traced the cords of his muscled inner arms. His abdomen spasmed in delayed response.

Another silence, and then the soft touch whispered over his penis. He turned his head to the side, grit his teeth behind his lips, and thankfully the sensation was gone.

He noticed a bit dazedly that he was erect and hard. _Really_ hard.

"Getting there, Duncan." Doyle was angered by at the chuckle in the voice, and vowed to keep silent. "Open your legs. As wide as you can."

He did so, wondering where the next touch would come.

The feather's faint touch whispered slowly up the inside of his thigh. He wanted to thrust, was just able not to -

\- And then a warm dampness closed over his penis. He groaned and his hips thrust up, then down.

He noticed there was a finger – or maybe two – that had made their way into him.

He couldn't help it anymore; he was no longer in control of his body and was moving inexorably towards that finish line. His arms were pulling on their restraints, his feet had found purchase on the bed while the world had become the mouth and fingers controlling his soul -

\- and then they pulled back, his legs were lifted, and a more solid length was smoothly pushing into him, hitting that spot.

He hooked his legs around the other figure as though he could push it in even deeper. He was panting, he was on fire, his arms were corded in their restraints, he was holding on for dear life.

The other man seemed to have lost some control as well, driving into Doyle, almost losing the rhythm in the hand wrapped around his penis.

And then the world dissolved in the fury of sensations assailing Doyle.

Doyle didn't scream, though Duncan might have.

#

Thus began a new cycle of events: days would go by, during which Duncan would have next to no contact with his employer; and then the summons would come, and he would swing the big luxury car to the front of the house, pick up his charge, then silently steer the vehicle to the apartment block, rising like an oasis in the desert of this operation. They would disembark, enter that room - Room 27 - where Duncan, and Doyle, would do their best to make himself available, to inextricably bind Mr. Bodie to him.

He found he dreaded their sessions less with time. _Must be really settling into this role._

#

"So, I've got his interest; have had it now for a few weeks. When do we strike?"

Smith, not normally at a loss for words, regarded Doyle with just a blank look.

Doyle felt an edge of apprehension at Smith's silence. "That is what this is all about, isn't it?"

"Doyle, things are going along perfectly; we just need more time for background intelligence to be completed. You are doing your job flawlessly; just continue on a little while longer."

"Just how much 'background intelligence' is needed, Smith? This was always a simple job: go in, eliminate the target, get out. I've more than lived up to my part of the bargain. Now why the sudden interest in which side he dresses on?"

Smith didn't look abashed in the least. "Look, we do all appreciate the incredible risks you've been taking, but some new, unexpected information has come up - information that can assist in a number of ways and places. We can't lose that lead; we have to follow up with that.

"We've all got our marching orders, Doyle; you know that. You may have the most exposure but we won't forget you and leave you stranded. Just keep up the performance a little longer, and we'll call you in when the time is right."

The tram pulled to a halt, and Smith abruptly stood up. "See you next week, then."

Feeling cheated, Doyle watched him walk off into the darkness.

#

Duncan sat facing Mr. Bodie, impaled, sliding down the length to impossible fullness. Fully seated, he turned his head to the side for a second, where his eye caught Mr. Bodie's shoulder holster, slung over the peg of a coat rack, cradling a Smith & Wesson.

_Close enough to reach out and -_

He looked down at the impossibly blue eyes, which glanced over at the coat rack and back at him.

Leaning forward, Doyle took possession of the lips before him. Mr. Bodie wrapped his arms around him and pressed him closer, trapping his penis between their two bodies.

Doyle gasped, shivered, then began to move in rhythm.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well, Doyle, what was so important that you needed to speak to me?" George focused a steely eye on the man before him. Smith stood to the side, listening.

"I need to know when we carry out the objective."

"Soon enough, Doyle, soon. We are still making preparations, and -"

"It needs to be sooner than that. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep up this charade." _I'm not sure how much longer I can keep from losing myself._

George showed no emotion, while the slightest moue of disapproval played across Smith's silent mouth. "You're doing a fine job, Doyle. You've hit all your objectives, you've gotten us as far as we've ever gone. Why would you think you couldn't keep your cover intact?"

"Well, obviously the intelligence on Mr. Bodie was somewhat lacking. I can't tell what he'll make me do next."

"Laddie – we are getting top-quality information from you; we can't endanger that. But it will be soon. Though I have no concerns; you are more than up to the challenge of maintaining your cover. You are one of the best agents we have, Doyle. You'll keep your head about you."

#

"It _will_ be soon, Doyle; George isn't saying that just to placate you." The two men sat towards the back of the near-empty tram as it jolted along the near-empty streets. "George doesn't placate; you should know that by now."

"Soon is what it's been for months, now." Doyle paused, looking out the window with an angry grimace, then turned back to his companion to start again. "You know, Smith, I always admired you. You're good at convincing people of what needs to be done but even with that – I truly admired you. When we split up in Bromwicham, I would have continued on, gone with you. Wouldn't have done that for most." _I would have done anything, followed you to hell, if you'd given me the word._ "But you told me to leave, and I did it."

"I know, Doyle, and -"

"No, you _don't_ know. I've followed your requests for years, because I... Liked you. Admired your ideals. Probably would've followed you to the front lines and taken a bullet for the cause, if you'd asked. God knows, it might've been easier to do. Yes, I made a commitment to follow through on this oppo - and I will. But there's a limit to everything, and following can go only so far.

"No, you don't know what it's like at all. This Bodie character. He - he gets under your skin. Takes up residence like a bad houseguest and doesn't want to leave. It's not a simple matter to continue on like this indefinitely.

"This needs to end soon, Smith. I need to be able to keep my integrity and my wits - and my sanity. Frankly, I feel most like I already have</i> taken a bullet for you. But I'm losing focus in all this.

"This needs to end soon."

#

"Identification."

Doyle handed over the travel papers to the taciturn guard at the entry to the Occupation District, what used to be known as Hamestede. Duncan wasn't much concerned, as the letter of passage covered him as a member of the Bodie household. _More like a belonging of the Bodie household._ But Doyle was astounded - and gleeful - that they would allow someone like him carte blanche, even unknowingly. That part wanted to rub it in the occupiers' faces, show them that they didn't know as much as they thought they did.

The guard returned the papers, bringing him back to the present by waving him along, and he steered the car through the narrow streets, following the directions given to him by Mr. James. The streets here – streets that he was in no way familiar with, streets that the average citizen was barred from entering – were crowded, packed with barbed wire and men in various uniforms and others in service to them. He figured even from his limited vantage point he could provide invaluable intelligence on this area to George and Smith.

Mr. James's detailed instructions had him turning the car in next to a solid, fairly nondescript building of sandstone and square windows; Mr. James had called it Caen Wood House. A short trip through an alley ending in an overhang, and he stopped the motor in a courtyard boxed in by the sandstone walls. Row upon row of rectangular windows stared mutely down at him, though Duncan – and, in truth, Doyle – felt more exposed in this closed-in space. He quickly parked the car, set the hand brake, grabbed the package nestled on the back set, and headed through a heavy oaken door as instructed.

Inside was an explosion of sound and light. The neat entryway was lined with a few chairs and plush, comfortable couches; but just beyond were distinct sounds of life and revelry, things that Doyle hadn't heard in years. He wondered what this place was, although he had some guesses.

A short, compact woman approached him, mistrust dusting her face. His brief "Raymond Duncan, parcel for Mr. Bodie" broke the hard crust, a smile easing across her lips. He wasn't sure though how much the rest of her had softened at his words.

"Ah, Mr. Bodie," a slight accent – Salian mixed with something else, Doyle guessed - approved of his presence, if not his existence. "Yes, he is expecting this parcel. Please to come this way." She turned into a panelled hall which led deeper into the building; Duncan followed close behind.

The panelling was interrupted at precise intervals by doors on either side. Most of them were closed, but through a few Doyle could see various uniforms of the Occupation, not a few encrusted with medals. Mingling with the men were a number of women, all very young, all very beautiful, all very much looking to please.

 _The Occupation at work._ Duncan tamped down the building anger.

One group suddenly spilled out into the hallway before them. A stout man, apparently the dominant figure of the group, with his jacket unbuttoned and none too steady on his feet, was trying to string together the words of a popular song, aided by two giggling women supporting him to either side. He turned to face the proprietress and Duncan halted by the group spread across the hall.

"Marguerite, Marguerite - how you sssspoil me with your sssservice," he slurred, reaching towards Doyle. "And you have brought me thisss delicious young man as well."

"General Aucourte," she gently but firmly grasped the outstretched hands, "any thing that you want, any service at all, is yours to be asking for. This young man is a guest, not one of our employees, but we have a number of ladies - and lads - who would be most happy to assist - "

Duncan observed as his guide manoeuvred the drunken man and his retinue back into the room and to a table overflowing with empty bottles and dirty dishes. A young woman came over and grabbed the man by a red-taloned hand, smoothly asking, "would you like to dance, General?" as Duncan's guide firmly shut the door on the scene.

"Many apologies, Mr. Duncan. Please to come this way." She continued their journey down the hall as though nothing had happened. Doyle suppressed his instinctive reaction and followed her.

At the end, they ascended a staircase, also in the same unrelievedly dark, heavy wood, and stopped before a nondescript door. Marguerite rapped smartly against the wood.

At the terse "enter," she smoothly opened the door. A low, smoky tune drifted out, minor key and brassy sax notes snaking around them. The lights in the room were out, with no hint at what lay within.

"Mr. Bodie," she offered to the darkness, "your parcel has arrived. Shall we enter?"

"Ah, yes – come in."

She gestured at Duncan, waving him in, and he walked through into the darkened interior.

"Shall I have a tea service to be sent up, Mr. Bodie?" sounded behind him.

"No, thank you, Marguerite. But please make sure we are undisturbed."

"As you please, Mr. Bodie." She smoothly closed the door behind Doyle, who heard the latch snick closed behind him.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Doyle could begin to make out objects in the room. A soft carpet lay beneath his feet, with the solid presence of a rectangular desk before him, utilitarian chairs carefully set around it. A gramophone, source of the music, took up most of the left side of the desk. Farther into the room, just beyond the hall light leaking from around the door, loomed the shape of a bed. What little he could see spoke of quiet comfort.

Duncan stepped further into the room; placing the package on the desk, he awaited further instructions. It was then, as his eyes adjusted more and made out Mr. Bodie against the far wall, that he saw it:

Stars.

Innumerable stars, stars without end, wrapping the room in a secure blanket. The walls of the room beyond the desk were transparent, most likely glass, and facing north at this height all that could be seen was the brilliance of the sky.

He almost didn't realise the gasp had escaped his lips.

"Beautiful, isn't it? And quiet up here, away from the main part of town."

"Millions of them, all across the sky. Even better than that sketch I did that time - "

"You sketch?"

"Yes, and I shoot, too, if you must know." _What was I thinking, letting that out?_ "Well-rounded, I am."

"Nothing wrong with either. Some of the most influential people in history have wielded brushes; some of the least, rifles."

Doyle said nothing, gauging the other man's response.

"What got you interested in that?"

"What, sketching? Always did it. Still do, every once in a while."

"Wouldn't have taken you for an artist."

Doyle shrugged in the darkness.

"No, take that back – I _could_ see it, there's something behind those eyes that says much more than what little comes out of your mouth. You think about more than you let on, though you try not to let anything slip out.

"One of the things I find fascinating about you, Duncan. You're not like the lot in the house – or downstairs, for that matter. You're your own man, servant or not."

"And not saying you're wrong or right, Mr. Bodie, but you think things over a lot more than I would have thought."

"That's how you stay alive in this game, Duncan. You think about repercussions, and you think two steps ahead of everyone else. That's why I quit being a mercenary and got out of the military; a bunch of boors, looking for loot, legalized murder, and a pot of gold at the end of it all. No real thought to the lives impacted, the ill-will of those under their thumb."

"But then why do you -"

"Why do I do what I do? Choices, sunshine, choices. Don't have many of those; known by too many people in high places, and I'd be next up against the wall if I got out of line. Would like to keep the peace, or as much as I can possibly do, but keep my head as well. And maybe some day the situation can be better for all involved."

"Haven't done so badly for yourself, though." Doyle thought of the mansion up in Bromwicham and the spacious townhouse in Chelsey.

"No; part of the act, now isn't it? Just like this place." A hand gestured towards the building. "All the stuffed shirts downstairs getting their jollies on, no thought about the bigger picture or the longer term. No care about the Resistance, and revolutionaries, and everyone ready to tear this regime apart. Without a little more thought from the Occupational Authorities, this can't end well for any of us.

"But enough about me. What about you, Duncan? You shoot, you draw. How did you end up here, instead of in the military?"

 _No harm in a -little- truth._ "Always was drawing something, for as long as I can remember. Father frowned upon it, so snuck off a lot, usually into the woods, and did what I could. Got into a fight, got the cheek," he rubbed at the ridge, "got an exemption. Didn't come from enough money to take up proper study, and the pater was gone soon enough anyway, so went into service." He didn't notice the way his voice had gone soft.

 "Father was gone - passed on?"

 "Gone." _The less said about that, the better._

 "Ah, never good, but never rare, either. What about shooting, then?"

 "Early years in the countryside of Derwent. Everyone learned how to shoot."

 "A man of many talents, then. I'm lucky to have you as part of my household. But you're new to this, aren't you?" He didn't have to explain _this, this thing that we do_. "Though I bet you've wondered before, in passing."

Doyle saw no reason to lie, or for Duncan to do so. "Yes, Mr. Bodie, though haven't exactly made a habit of it."

"Would've guessed you were an old hand... or a good actor."

"No, this is me, all me." _And maybe it is, more than it should be._ "Sir."

"Bodie."

"Mr. Bodie."

"Mister Bodie, Master Bodie, Lieutenant Colonel Bodie. All day, every day. Just - here, when we're here - call me Bodie. That's who I was when I crawled out of my mother, and who I'll end up being on my deathbed."

Duncan felt like he'd been given something special, something he had to be careful not to break. "Bodie." He'd said the actual name countless times now, whether in response to a command or passion, but this was different. "Bodie."

"Duncan."

He gazed back, feeling lighter inside than he had in a long time. "Yes, Bodie?" And then stopped, remembering, _that's not my name_.

Bodie reached out, cupping Duncan's face in his palm; then leaned in and kissed him, gently. The kiss increased in intensity, and Duncan found himself being steered over, then lowered to the bed.

And it wasn't as though he didn't enjoy the sensations, wasn't responding to what was being done; but it was Doyle who looked over the dark head, to all the stars overhead, and thought -

_It doesn't have to be like this._

Bodie began to undo the buttons of Duncan's shirt.

"No." It was out before he knew he'd say it.

The hand stilled, the dark shape of the head pulled back. "What?"

"No, It _doesn't_ have to be this way."

"Thought you liked this, sunshine." There was a hint of anger, and an edge of sadness in the declaration.

"Not a matter of not liking it; it's a matter of having a say, not being a puppet." Doyle was in charge, disregarding Duncan's dismay at the words coming out of his mouth. Doyle was sure. _It *doesn't* have to be like this._ "Not just being your bit on the side."

"Well, then." Bodie started to chuckle, surprised. "I was right; you aren't like the others." Then, more seriously: "Tell me, Duncan - if there were anything in the world that you could have, what would you want? No - don't answer that. No, just - here. Just look at me."

Doyle stared up at the face just distinguishable in the dark light.

"Now - Bodie, Duncan." Doyle felt a finger's brief impression on his chest. "In here, there is no master or servant; just you and me. And whatever you want; it's yours."

"Slumming a bit, then?"

"No, I'm serious. This is for you, anything you want." Doyle could hear the playful note in the voice, wanted to believe - but couldn't.

"That's easy enough for you to say, Mr. - Bodie." It was hard to drop the formal address. "You can leave at the end of this, go back to your important position and big house and possessions and army of servants. I am a man, one with hopes and dreams just as big as yours - a man of many talents, as you said - but one step out of that door, once I leave this property, I _am_ your property, your servant. You speak of wanting something better for Brython; but one bad mood, one argument, and you're no different from the lot downstairs when compared to me."

Doyle stopped, paused. Wondered what madness had taken him over to admit to so much.

"Duncan," Bodie started, low and firm, "I know that your life can't have been easy for you. I came from humble beginnings and I don't forget them for a second. But you are unique. And I don't want the world downstairs. I don't know how yet, I don't know when, but I want you to have the ability to be yourself, to flourish. To sketch as many stars as you ever want to."

"Duncan," Bodie repeated, "do you trust me?" Doyle could just make out the blue eyes in the dark: firm, insistent, as though this were a matter of free will but there was no other possible answer.

"Yes,... I do. God help me, I do." And Doyle surrendered.

#

For the next several days things were quiet for Doyle; Mr. Bodie was away on business, and his sister was off visiting. Doyle moved through his regular duties, feeling strangely calm despite the inherent contradictions between his mission and the discussion he'd had with his employer. _Bodie._

"Duncan! Oh, there you are." Mrs. Greene seemed to forever be shouting for him. _Thought we were supposed to be nearly invisible_ , Duncan mused. _Though I suppose I'm one to talk._

"Duncan – errand for you. Mr. Bodie sent word that you're to go over east of the park, South Audley way, and give them this note. You're to wait for them to read the note. Mind, wear some decent clothes while you're at it. And here, while you're out, I need a tin of starch, since you're running all these errands now. Here, I'll get you some pence as well." The solid form moved down the hall to retrieve some change, the keys jangling from her belt marking her passage until she returned.

"Here you go. Now mind, I need this back as soon as you can. Can't trust Stewart, that boy hasn't got a lick of sense about him. If it weren't for the war, we'd be able to bring in some useful lads..."

No longer paying attention to her, Doyle pondered what to do with the note. _Should take it to George. But have to get over there and back in a reasonable time. Could take it straight to the address. But have to let the others know what's going on. What if it's a trap, what if Bodie was playing at things the other night?_

He knew what he had to do.

#

"Well, there's not much to it. You're basically to go to the address - a woodworking shop, and a high-end one at that - and ask for 'the usual'."

"Why would I want woodworking?" The blue-green eyes focused on George. "Doesn't make much sense."

"We think it's a code, though nothing sinister. Best you go and find out. Smith will trail you, though obviously it may be hard to get him into the shop. Go ahead, lad; you don't have a lot of time, but I see this as a positive development. And report back as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir." It was unusual, but Doyle felt more at ease than sense would have indicated. Mr. Bodie was now confiding in him; why would he go to all this trouble if he wanted him arrested?

#

It was easy enough for Doyle to find the shop entry, one of a matched set amongst a row of shops in a high-end district, as George had predicted. He pulled the car to in front of a set of massive mahogany doors, took a breath, and stepped out and forward.

The doors swept open to either side of their own accord - it was only after he had stepped over the doorsill that Duncan spotted the discreet white-gloved figures holding the carved door handles - and he passed through into a hushed space. A figure materialized before him, a bit of a sneer across his face. "Tradesmen to the rear."

"I'm meant to give this to you." Doyle handed over the note.

The man studied it, and the look on his face softened. "Ah, Mr. Bodie," as if that explained everything. "Yes, right this way." He turned and disappeared through a side doorway, and Doyle followed him silently.

This room was just as quiet as the entryway. Several rows of glassed-in wooden display cases bordered the room, the dimmed lighting demanding respect from those who had entered. Doyle glanced over to one of the cases.

_Handguns. He wants me to have a handgun? And I can't even use it, according to George!_

"So you're to be Mr. Bodie's bodyguard, then? We'll have to make sure you're armed sufficiently and well. Though Mr. Bodie isn't known to trust many at all; you must be very good at what you do." The unsurprising RP smoothly spilled from the attendant's lips. _Couldn't be just a shopkeeper_ , mused Duncan, _not in a place like this_.

He remained unfazed. "I aim to make sure Mr. Bodie has no complaints."

"But of course, Mr. - "

"Duncan."

"Mr. Duncan. And we're to make sure he has no complaints about our service, as well. Only the best here." The attendant bent to retrieve something from the case, then straightened and put a gun on the counter before them.

"What range of weapons am I to consider?"

"Mister Bodie indicated that anything in the shop that you wanted would be yours, sir." He gestured to the piece before them.

 _A Bruning Hi-Power._ Doyle had heard tell of them, although this was the first one he'd ever seen. _And quite a powerful gun, too._

"A fine choice. Easy draw, and quite deadly if needed. Perhaps you would like to try it out, sir?"

"Well, I..." Doyle was frustrated at his lack of a comeback.

"Or perhaps the Grimbold P-38?" He pulled another gun, compact in shape and weight, from the case.

Doyle looked it over, stalling while he scrambled to come up with the name of an appropriate weapon to choose.

"Well, let's go for the best, sir; this will be in the service of Mister Bodie, after all. If you would." He led Doyle to a far cabinet, and pulled out a key from a slight chain secured around his neck, then tucked under his jacket. "A Dudley. Handmade, can be tailored to your specifications. Though if you're to start right away, we can customize existing stock."

 _Only the best for Bodie, after all. Even if it kills him._ He felt the weight of the outside world, and the expectations of the operation, start to settle around his shoulders. _Even if it kills you, you big crumb. Although they won't let me kill you. Maybe they never will._

"That would be fine, then," Doyle said absent-mindedly.

"A very good choice, sir. A very good choice."

#

There was quite a bit of hubbub about the house, enough that Doyle came perilously close to missing his rendezvous with Smith.

He arrived at the corner to hear the bell of the tram ring, then ran straight across the street and jumped on just as it pulled away. He panted his way up the aisle, and sprawled onto a bench. He had only just caught his breath when a rough coat was thrown down next to him and Smith joined it.

"Getting out of shape, then? Thought your service was keeping you in peak form."

"Shut it, Smith. Almost didn't make it; had to run for the tram."

"Well, good thing you made it, because there are some things you should know."

"Really?" Doyle asked. "What's happened now?"

"Let's get off the next stop. It's a nice night. Could do with a bit of a walk."

Doyle was curious; this wasn't normally how their sessions went.

They got off at Marble Arch, and angled past into Hyde Park. Traffic was light on the footpaths, and they could speak with minimal fear of being overheard.

"So what's happened? A change in plans?"

"No, something else... a different cell. Caught by the Occupational Authorities. Tortured, then shot. They knew nothing of us, so we should be secure, but you can never be too cautious."

"What a waste." And Doyle truly felt that. For their own safety, each cell avoided contact with all others as much as they could; but they all knew others were toiling as they were to overcome the Salians and force them back over the water. It was a risk they all lived with, and hard to hear of those who ended dying from it.

"Well, there's more. Turns out that they were discovered and pulled in by someone we all know."

"Who?" Doyle questioned, although he had an inkling of how this tale would end.

"None other than fine Master Bodie. He caught them, he interrogated them, and rumour has it he executed them. He's been away the past few days, hasn't he?"

Doyle felt a sinking feel in his stomach. _All those fine words meant nothing, then. He's just out for himself._ He was careful to hide it from Smith.

"So be careful, Doyle. In the end, he's dangerous, and you don't know when he'll turn on you. As close as you have to get to him, remember whom you're dealing with. The enemy."

"Of course I won't forget. In the end, this is war." And he could numb himself, turn off everything else.

He had no choice, after all.

#

"And so the gun will be ready to be picked up in about two months."

George was all ears as Doyle described the visit to him. "Very good. And the showroom?"

"Two doors. High windows. Just the one assistant that I saw, plus the two door attendants."

"Shouldn't offer much resistance, then."

"Well, don't want to kill them if there's no need."

"You'll do whatever the situation calls for, laddie. Especially if you want to get away afterward."

"Yes, sir." _But won't kill them unless there's no other choice._ He tamped down thoughts of Smith's cousin, long ago.

"So, find out the exact date. We'll make sure all our assets will be in place."

 _Bingo_ , thought Doyle, _time and location to move ahead with this operation_. Though he was not as elated as he might've been a few weeks earlier. Maybe he'd been at this for too long.

It was time to end this anyway.

#

By the time two months had passed, everything was in place.

Doyle had met Smith on the jerky tram three days earlier to impart last-minute information and to be given a set of strict instructions in return. Duncan was to take his employer back to the gun shop, ostensibly to pick up the pistol. The other agents would be in place around the shop, though he didn't know how or where; he was merely to make his delivery and let the others carry out their roles. Separate surveillance had established the layout of the premises; he would slip through the velvet curtain to the back exit and safety. He'd had that drilled into his head enough to know it in his sleep.

All he had to do was to deliver the goods. Which he was in the process of doing.

He refused to think of what-ifs, of what would happen if this failed. He was Duncan, and Duncan had a job to do.

Once again Duncan pulled up before those massive mahogany doors. He spared Doyle one thought _I hope to never see this building again in my lifetime_ , then shut him down, to begin the climax to this play.

Mr. Bodie climbed down from the motor; Duncan shut the door behind him with a satisfying click. _There you go, you smug priapismic monster._ Bodie slowed down enough that Duncan was able to easily follow him, almost as though they were entering as equals.

Though not quite.

The doors opened as smoothly and invisibly as before, and they passed through the foyer into the quiet showroom. This time, a few other clients were scattered around the showroom: two men _Howard and Smith_ quietly discussed other pieces with other attendants. A pretty girl _Lucy_ was perusing a small pistol to the side. _Good; no one else that I can see. Easier to minimize collateral damage._ Duncan was grim-mouthed but silent.

"Ah, Mr. Bodie, you have arrived." The attendant who had assisted in the earlier visit materialized. _Mr. RP is back, as plummy as ever. Wouldn't have a word for me even if it'd save his life._ Doyle wondered if he were friend or foe.

"Everything is ready; please come this way." They followed him to the rear, and entered a small office. They stepped up to a display table as Bodie asked, "Have you taken care of everything?"

"Yes, sir, as per your extra instructions." He came carrying a polished wooden case, which he placed on a cloth before them.

"Well, go ahead." Bodie gestured to the box. Duncan undid the latch and pivoted the top up.

The pistol rested on a bed of merlot velvet. He reached in and picked it up. It felt perfect in his grip.

His instructions did not include firing it, however.

"Turn it over; look at the butt of the handle."

Duncan turned it just so, and noticed a subtle scrolling decoration on the butt. He brought it closer.

A simple 'To R. From B.' lay nested among the swirls.

He turned to look at Bodie, at the look in his eyes. At a look that no one – not his father, not Smith, not his aunt, not 'George' and all his machinations had ever given him.

A look he could never deny.

"Go," he whispered. "Run."

Mr. Bodie looked at him for just an instant, then bolted from the room, crashing into a chair on his way out. The chair spun, then overturned on the floor.

Ray wasn't sure if it were Duncan or Doyle standing stupidly with the gun still in his hand.

#

In the end, his arrest was straightforward. He had slowly walked out the shop – with no sign of any of his compatriots – and paused at the pavement, then started walking in any direction. The car was long gone. He pulled off his cap, reverting to instinct to get him past the numbness inside and out of this situation. He reached a local tram stop, where a car was waiting and boarded it.

Within seconds, grey army trucks had appeared to block off the end of the street.

He felt in his pocket for the pill case containing the capsule he'd been allotted, just the one, in case of irreversible circumstances.

The others were gone, and he wasn't sure if they'd been captured.

He dropped the pill case back into his pocket and awaited the approach of the soldiers.

#

Everything went by in a blur after that, as Doyle became a guest of the State.

There was the interrogation, of course. A laughable term, a nicety for the torture of those endless hours. He thought he'd not said everything, that he'd told them a basic, plausible story and nothing more; but it was hard to remember everything as his mind shut itself away from the experience.

And now he lay against the wall of the cell, on his knees, somewhere far inside his head. He thought he could hear a door open far, far away. One eye cracked open, and a pair of wingtip shoes, polished to an impossible shine, came into his range.

 _Must be time, then,_ managed to register in his brain.

#

The endless rocking stopped, and noises sounded from beyond the van door. Doyle felt slightly better, or a lot more numb: he couldn't quite sort out which. But he felt he could face the murmuring outside the vehicle and the ping ping ping which must be coming from the cooling engine, now, and perhaps even make it to his feet.

If things proceeded at this pace, then he was glad he hadn't opted for the pill. At any rate, it seemed the worst of it must be over.

Finally, the back doors of the transport vehicle swung out, and a scene of intense activity opened before him. Guards scurried to and fro; vehicles were distributed across a muddy field, their headlights illuminating the hive of activity. He paused for a minute, mesmerized by the ordered chaos of dozens of orders being carried out simultaneously.

_I can face this, I can play my role. The final role of my life._

And they came in to drag him to his feet, but he waved them off; majestically rose to his feet himself, straightened out his clothes, and walked to the doors of the vehicle.

Head held just as high as any king would.

_Charles I, perhaps. Or Harold Godwinson._

They walked him to the edge of a pit _a quarry, maybe?_ and pushed him to his knees among the rocks. The gaping hole at the edge faced him, black, impenetrable. He forced himself to stare back at it, face it head-on, not cower from it in the abject fear that wanted to grab him by the heart. Voices started to trail back into his consciousness.

"...resistance cell, we believe all of them. Good work tonight."

"Yes, sir." Somewhat terse, but still recognizable. _Bodie. No, the Traitor._

"I left this one for you, as a reward. Plus it's always good to get a little target practice in." The voice added a little chuckle.

"Quite agree, sir. These vermin are too dangerous and need to be erased from the face of the earth." Cool, calm, collected – as always.

 _Inhuman goat,_ he thought, then the meaning of the words broke through. He was proud; his body remained stiff and he didn't buckle.

Somewhere far away, in a town square surrounded by homes full of warm, vibrant, _alive_ people, a bell tower began to chime.

_One two three_

Some of the ambient noise seemed to quieten, or at least peel away. Maybe Doyle was imagining it.

_four five six_

Some shifting noises as a stance must have been taken.

_seven eight nine_

A click as the safety was released.

_ten_

A loud boom, and then the world went dark.


End file.
